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There was, he saw, a battle within a battle in the center of the field, with
Anakhar's Spotted Cats in a wild melee with Krobyz' Leaping Goats. Most of
Varatesh's nonoutlaw allies seemed to be bunched there, from the standards
waving over them. They might fight along with his blank black banner, but were
not eager to join too closely with the renegades who followed it.
As a result, Anakhar's men were outnumbered and hard-pressed. Targitaus waved
to his son to ride to their rescue. Batbaian led a company leftward. Unlike
Viridovix, he knew friend from foe at a glance. His horsemen plugged what had
been a growing gap, making the enemy give ground. Heart-
ened, the Spotted Cats fought with fresh vigor.
Targitaus took the rest of his men on a flanking move round the outlaws' left.
Avshar met them head-on, leading half a hundred of Varatesh's hardest
brigands, scarred rogues who knew every trick of fighting, fair and foul. They
were steeped in evil but far from cowards, giving no quarter and asking none.
On his huge stallion, Avshar stood out from the Khamorth around him like a war
galley among rowboats. His fearsome bow was slung over his shoulder; he swung
a long straight sword with deadly effect. "Another oaf!" he cried as one of
Targitaus' riders drove at him. The blade hissed as it cleaved air and bit
into the plainsman's neck. "That for your stupidity, then, and Skotos eat your
soul forever!"
Viridovix raised his voice to carry through the battle clamor: "Avshar!" The
wizard-prince's head came up, like a dog taking a scent. "Here, you kern!" the
Celt yelled. "You wanted Scaurus, but I'll stand for him the now!"
"And fall, as well!" Avshar spurred past one of his own men. "Out of my way,
ravens' meat!" He brought his sword up in mock salute as he neared the Gaul.
"You will make Varatesh angry, gifting me with your life so."
Viridovix barely beat the wizard's first stroke aside, turning the flat of the
blade with his shield the edge would have torn through it. The heavy horse
Avshar rode let him carry the full panoply he always wore beneath his
robes his shield was a kite-shaped one, faced with metal, on the
Namdalener pattern. The gear made the Gaul's boiled leather seem flimsy as
linen.
You'll not beat this one on strength, the Gaul thought as he turned his horse
for the next pass, nor on fear either. That left wit. He remembered the lesson
he had learned in his fight with Varatesh: a horse was as important as a
sword. It was doubly true of Avshar's huge charger, which reared to dash the
brains from a dismounted nomad with its iron-shod hooves.
The wizard-prince brought it down and sent it charging at Viridovix, who dug
spurs into his own mount. When they met, his slash was aimed not at Avshar in
his mail, but at the stallion. He had intended to deliver the same crushing
blow he had used against the outlaw's mount, but misjudged the speed the
charger could deliver. Instead of crashing down between the beast's eyes, the
sword tore a great flap of skin from the side of its neck.
That served nearly as well as the stroke he had intended, for the wounded
animal screamed in shock and pain and bucked frantically, almost throwing
Avshar. Bellowing in rage, the wizard-prince had to clutch its mane to keep
from going over its tail. And even though he held his seat, the wounded animal
would not answer the reins; it ran off at full gallop, carrying him out of the
fight.
"Come back, ye blackguard!" Viridovix howled gleefully. "It's only just begun
that I have."
Avshar spun in his saddle, shouting a curse. For a moment the battlefield
swayed and darkened before the Gaul's eyes. Then the druids' marks on his
blade flashed golden as they turned aside the spell. His vision cleared. He
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squeezed the sword hilt gratefully, as if it were a comrade's hand.
The battle hung, undecided, for some endless time, with no lull long enough to
let the fighters do much more than sob in a few quick breaths or swig at skins
of water or kavass. The sun had passed west of south before Viridovix fully
realized he was moving forward more often than back.
"Press 'em, press 'em!" Targitaus shouted. "They're going to break."
But as his horsemen gathered themselves for the charge that would finish the
outlaws, yells of alarm came from the center and left, the most dreaded cry on
the steppe: "Fire!" Clouds of thick black smoke leaped into the air, obscuring
the renegades. Targitaus' face purpled with rage. "Filthy cowards! Better to
die like men than cover a retreat that way."
Then Viridovix heard Avshar's gloating laughter and knew all his hopes were
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